


so consume me with your sin (veins filled with fiery blood)

by mirkandmidnight



Series: As Above, So Below [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Eponine is a little shit, F/F, F/M, Fluff, I mean he's still a criminal, I will gender my Patron Minette how I want to gender my Patron Minette, Kidnapping, Nice Montparnasse, Organized Crime, Pre-Het, Slash, Sort of? - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt, Weapons, what are tags, with obsession issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirkandmidnight/pseuds/mirkandmidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse considers himself a reasonable guy, okay, but there are lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so consume me with your sin (veins filled with fiery blood)

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt came from tumblr, but I made some changes because the original poster wanted Montparnasse and Claquesous and I really just wanted grumpy Sous who knows people and comes up with these great plans for heists and Montparnasse doesn't appreciate him nearly enough.
> 
> Also, if anyone is going to think messing with a notorious crime syndicate is fun, I felt like that would be Eponine.
> 
> Sorry, OP.
> 
> Post is here: http://meowrawrpineapple.tumblr.com/post/119876895539/i-want-an-au-where-montparnasse-keeps-trying-to
> 
> Title is a quote from an unknown source.

The Sicily job goes off without a hitch. Or at least, that’s what he tells Claquesous. Montparnasse has always been of the opinion that you never tell the guy planning your heist that he did a bad job. Especially not when you’re dealing with Claquesous.

The Sicily job goes as well as can be reasonable expected, which is to say, it’s a complete disaster. Montparnasse’s gloves are ripped, he’s bleeding, and if he never sees a Shih Tzu again, he might still die, if not happy, then at least not completely miserable.

Except that he still didn’t get the painting. Fucking Degas and his stupid dancers. The frame had been empty, and there was a note stuck to the glass that read, "Finders keepers,” in spidery script.

Which is just-Montparnasse considers himself a reasonable guy, okay, but there are lines. How dare this…person steal a priceless painting before he got there? And then leave a note to taunt him?

If this is Grantaire, Montparnasse is going to kill him.

But no, Grantaire’s gone straight, something to do with some blond activist in France, of all places. None of the other members of Patron Minette would go behind his back like this, and all the other criminals in Europe fear Patron Minette too much to cross them.

So who is it? It has to be someone new on the scene, someone with guts and intelligence. This is the sort of thing that really shouldn’t make all his hair stand on end.

He’s been talking to Babet. Babet says this kind of fixation is unhealthy for him.

You know what, screw Babet.  
***  
So he goes and talks to Claquesous. The informer lives in Prague these days, as close to off the grid as you can get without going back to the Stone Age.

Montparnasse knocks on the door to his flat and waits. There’ll be a test. There’s always a test with Claquesous, because the man is legitimately paranoid. Montparnasse is pretty damn sure.

The door opens a crack, and someone speaks on the other side. “Who is it?”

“Montparnasse,” he says.

“Password, please.”

“Really, Claquesous?” Montparnasse sighs and rolls his eyes. “I know you know what my voice sounds like.” Claquesous opens the door all the way and pokes his head out, scowling and running a hand over his slicked back hair.

“What exactly are you doing here, Montparnasse?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. “Come in, quickly.” He lets Montparnasse in and shuts the door behind him with a click. “Well? What’s going on?”

Montparnasse shrugs, then says in a grave tone, pronouncing every syllable, “Things.”

Claquesous sighs. “Why do you have to be like this? You know, Felix Tholomyes made me a very good offer to come work for him just the other day.”

“About that,” Montparnasse says. “We’ve got new competition.” He holds up the note taken from the gallery for Claquesous to inspect.

The other man plucks it from his fingers and studies it carefully. “A woman, by the handwriting.” He looks up. “And why didn’t you tell me about this sooner/” There’s a distinct tinge of irritation to his voice that makes Montparnasse cringe.

“Didn’t want to make you worry?” he tries.

Claquesous raises an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s sweet of you, Montparnasse,” he says sarcastically. “We go on with the Rome job as planned. If anything happens, you tell me. Got it?”

“Got it,” Montparnasse says, twitching two fingers in a mock salute as he turns to leave.

There are times he really fucking hates working with Claquesous.  
***  
He’s extra prepared for the Rome job, even though he knows he doesn’t need to be. It’s not like he’s stealing from a museum, just some old lady’s rinky dink art collection with security from the late 90s.

Come on. Montparnasse is a professional; people should at least make this a challenge for him.

He begins to look for the painting (Madonna and Child, religion is ridiculous but oh so very lucrative) and stops short when he sees the frame where the painting should be. It’s gone. Again.

God damn it.

There’s another stuck to the frame, in the same handwriting. Montparnasse plucks it from the frame and reads it aloud.

“Better luck next time, from Eponine,” he says slowly, then crumples the notes and shoves it in his jacket pocket. Montparnasse feels a fierce grin growing on his face.

This is going to be fun.  
***  
He calls Claquesous from a rusty pay phone in the rain outside the Coliseum He taps one leather clad foot as he waits for the line to pick up.

“Yes?” Claquesous says.

“Yeah, listen, I got a name,” Montparnasse says.

“Did you get the painting?”

Montparnasse feels his excitement waning. “No, she got there first again, but I got her name this time, so maybe we can track her down.”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment. “You like her, don’t you?” Claquesous asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Montparnasse retorts, suddenly on the defensive. “I’ve never even met this woman, how can I like her?” He can practically hear Claquesous smirking on the other end.

“You like the competition, having to prove that you’re the best. Don’t think I don’t know you, Montparnasse.”

Montparnasse frowns into the receiver. “Well, someone’s a bit cranky today, aren’t they? What happened? Someone buy up all your favorite wine again?” The last time something like that happened, they’d all been sent on madcap trips all over Europe to steal the wine back. (Montparnasse had been sent to Saudi Arabia, his complexion had suffered for weeks.)

Claquesous is rather particular about his wine.

The frown disappears. “So what do you recommend I do about it?” he says.

He can hear the other man shuffling papers on the other end. “Carry on as usual, I suppose and call me or Babet if anything new on her turns up.” He pauses. “And get some sleep, Montparnasse, you sound absolutely terrible.”

Which is just the kind of passive aggressive fuck you he’s come to expect from the guy.  
***  
Eponine hates. It’s not really directed at any specific person or thing, she just hates wholeheartedly. She hates her mother, she hates her father, and she’s beginning to hate herself as well.

Come to think of it, this is probably why she turned to a life of crime when she was fifteen. The last six or seven years have been surprisingly lucrative, considering the care she’s taken to make sure she stays off the radar of the authorities, or worse, other criminals. She’s always had a knack for remaining unnoticed. It’s served her well as a thief.

She started as a pickpocket on the streets of Paris, thin fingers snaking into rich men’s pockets and stealing their wallets and phones. That had supported her and her sister well enough until Azelma joined up with the Patron Minette.

So now Eponine has an in with one of the most notorious groups in Europe, if she’s so inclined. She hadn’t even intended to get into art; it had just sort of happened. She’d been in Sicily to meet up with Azelma, and her younger sister brought up the painting and showed her a few pictures.

So Eponine just sort of stole it.

She’s on a cargo train to Poland when she gets a call from her sister. Eponine stretches, catlike, and answers.

“Ep! Thank god,” Azelma says. “Where are you?”

“Poland,” she answers shortly. “What’s the matter?”

“You remember that painting I told you about? My boss was supposed to steal it, but someone else got there first and now I’m going to be in so much trouble with Babet.” Azelma sounds like she’s seconds away from bursting into tears, which is so unlike her that Eponine’s fingers tense around the slick phone. (She’d liberated it from a businessman’s pocket, but no one needed to know that, now did they?)

She grimaces. “Um. About that, Zel. I sort of stole it myself?”

“What?” her sister screeches, making Eponine wince and hold the phone away from her ear. “Eponine! What the hell were you thinking?”

“Well, I got sort of bored and then you wouldn’t stop talking about it and I had to pay the bills somehow, didn’t I?”

After a ridiculously long pause, Eponine hears Azelma start laughing, and a smile spreads across her face. “You’re horrible,” her sister says between gasps of laughter. “Who steal a priceless painting because they got bored?”

She grins. “God, I wish I could have seen the look on your boss’s face. Oh shit, and I left a note on the frame saying ‘finders keepers.’”

Azelma snorts. “Montparnasse called one of my other bosses. I thought the two of them would blow up.”

“Yeah? And who’s this Montparnasse guy? Name sounds familiar.”

There’s the clicking of keys on the other end. “I’m sending you a picture of him I got. He’s the most pretentious bastard I’ve ever met, and an absolute nightmare to work with sometimes.” She pauses. “Oh, I have to go.”

“Hold on,” Eponine says. “Where’s he going next? Send me the details.” Her grin widens, if that’s even possible.

She can hear her sister’s wicked smile even over 500 miles away. “Will do, sis,” Azelma says, and hangs up.

A minute later, her phone pings to alert her of a new message. Azelma’s sent her a photo, presumably of this Montparnasse and god, it’s a ridiculous name. Who names their kid after a mountain? She opens the picture. It’s a picture of a man about her own age, with pale skin and dark, wavy hair. She smirks. “Cute,” Eponine comments aloud, noting the designer label clothing and tall leather boots. “Real cute.”

Of course, that’s probably exactly what he wants her to think. Eponine doesn’t know this Montparnasse, but she gets the distinct feeling that he’ll be a pleasure to fuck with.  
***  
The next note says “Try again, pretty boy,” and not only is he getting a little pissed off, but worried too. Because it can’t be a coincidence that this person has guessed three times where and when he’s going to be pulling off a heist. This person has to have inside knowledge, and Montparnasse can’t have people knowing things about them, it’s sort of detrimental to being a thief.

So now he really needs to find this woman, and get her out of the picture before she does something he’ll regret.  
***  
Eponine hasn’t been this delighted in years. She travels, Azelma tells her the details of the next heist, and Eponine carries it out an hour before this Montparnasse is supposed to arrive. It’s a good arrangement; she really doesn’t have any reason to complain. This is the most fun she’s had in forever.

Azelma tells her about her girlfriend, a charming girl called Irma. Eponine meets her in Nice, and they talk about the criminal justice system, which is hilarious on so many levels, none of which would make the least amount of sense to this Irma, so she doesn’t make any untoward remarks. She’s gotten rather good at that.

Irma leaves to go back to work, giving Eponine and Azelma a chance to talk about other things.

Azelma takes a sip of wine and raises an eyebrow at Eponine. “Well? How are you doing these days, sister dear?”

She smiles. “Rather well, actually. I’m really enjoying stealing from your bosses.”

Her sister sets down her wineglass. “About that, Eponine. You need to be more careful about that. I can only do so much to keep them off your tail. They’re really trying to find you now, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be all friends together when they catch up to you.”

The smile drops right off her face. “How close are they?”

“Too close,” Azelma says. I’m doing everything I can to cover for you, but you’re going to have to deal with this eventually.”

Eponine’s mind is going 1000 miles a minute. She clutches the edge of the table in a feeble attempt to steady herself, then takes a few calming breaths before meeting her sister’s gaze.

“All right,” Eponine says. “How strong is Patron Minette’s presence in Paris?”  
***  
There’a reason why Babet is the person who deals with clients and Montparnasse is not. It may be because he really just hates people and Babet is, if not a people person, then very adept at faking her way through it.

So it’s fairly safe to say that he’s really dreading meeting with this client that Azelma’s managed to dredge out of the depths of God knows where. And who does it have to be Paris? He hates Paris, really, he does.

He does make sure to get rid of all his more obvious weapons. Montparnasse keeps a few of his smaller knives because damned if he’s walking into an unfamiliar setting alone and unarmed. Going alone is bad enough already, and he’s regretting agreeing to it.

He arrives at the base of the Eiffel Tower a few minutes before the meeting is supposed to happen, and stands directly under the point. Montparnasse glances around and winces. This place would be hell to run security for, he thinks. It’s crowded, there’s lots of ways in and out, and he’s been looking for the past minute and a half but he still can’t find any security cameras with a decent view of the whole area.

He checks the time. Two minutes past the hour, where’s the client? Even as Montparnasse is thinking this, a hand grabs his wrist and he’s being pulled along at a half run, half stumble.

Montparnasse stops and pulls his wrist out of the person’s grip. She turns to look at him, one eyebrow. She’s a woman a few years younger than him, wearing a canvas jacket that’s been beat to hell and leather shoes. She’s not beautiful, Montparnasse thinks, but she looks fierce.

“You’re the client?” he asks, doubt evident in his voice. While this girl may be striking, she doesn’t look like she has the money for a new coat, never mind pay him to carry out a heist.

“Yep,” she says, popping the p. The girl grabs his hand again and begins pulling him through the crowd at a brisk pace. “My car’s just over here.”

She leads him away from the Eiffel Tower and back towards a more residential area and Montparnasse is too busy trying to figure her out to notice that the houses are getting increasingly more ramshackle and that no one seems to be around.

She pulls him down an alleyway and Montparnasse has just enough time to think, this isn’t right, before she’s dropped his hand and wrapped one arm around his throat, and the other hand is holding a rag over his mouth and there’s a sickeningly sweet smell soaking into his brain and fuck, this girl is stronger than looks and he’s staggering backwards and-  
***  
“How’s Feuilly?” Eponine asks as she and Bahorel heave Montparnasse into the back of Bahorel’s (or is it his?) beat up car. Bahorel’s got his feet, and Eponine’s hooked her elbows under his arms, and they’re both keeping an eye out for police cars because that would be really awkward at this point, explaining why they’re heaving an internationally wanted criminal into Bahorel’s car.

They get him into the backseat and Eponine shuts the door. They get into the front, and Bahorel turns the key in the ignition. “Oh, you know, the usual,” he says.

“He still doing computer stuff on the side?” she looks down at the five (five? Really?) knives they got off the con man and hums her discontent. She keeps two of the better ones, and puts the other two in the glove compartment.

Bahorel starts to drive. “not so much these days, since he started at the university and he’s working two part time jobs.” He snorts. “Stubborn ginger bastard won’t let me help him.”

“Oh, good for him,” she comments, and looks out the window. “I’d go too, if I had the money.” Eponine gives a deprecating laugh. “Or the brains. Or a clean criminal record.”

“So, who even is this guy?” he asks, glancing into the backseat. Montparnasse is still out cold, his head lolling forward.

“He’s from Patron Minette. One of the four heads, actually,” Eponine says, as casually as she can manage.

He swears. “Jesus, Ep, what kind of trouble are you in?” Bahorel looks legitimately panicked, which might be amusing if she wasn’t so worried about this herself. “If Patron Minette is involved,” he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Don’t worry about it, Rel. I’ve got it handled.” Eponine gives him a reassuring smile before turning to look out the passenger window, feeling a lot less confident than she acts.

“I hope you do, because it’ll be both our heads if you don’t get this sorted out.”  
***  
Montparnasse jerks awake with a start, and finds himself ziptied rather neatly to a sturdy metal chair. He’s got no way of knowing how long he’s been out, because he’s in a darkened room with no windows, lit entirely by candlelight.

Behind him, someone rests their chin on top of his head, balancing elbows on his shoulders.

“I like your shampoo,” a feminine voice comes from behind him, clearly amused at his predicament.

“Thanks,” he says reflexively. He might be a world class thief, but at least he has manners, unlike some people he could name. “You have a very efficient operation going on here, I can tell.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says, the amusement in her voice only increasing.

Montparnasse tilts his head slightly. “My only question is, what does this all have to do with me?”

The woman scoffs. “Oh, come on. You’re the one who’s been chasing me all across Europe, from what I hear.” She pauses. “No?” Her voice takes on a distinctly playful note.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lies, mind racing. A moment later, there’s an elbow being driven into his kidney and Montparnasse is pitching forward and gasping for breath.

“Don’t shit with me,” she snarls into his ear. “I know who you are. I know you’re Patron Minette. And I’m damn sure you know me.” She walks around the chair so they’re face to face and yes, it’s the girl from the Eiffel Tower. 

He stares at her for a long moment, and if he wasn’t so busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, he might have time to properly appreciate how she looks backlit by candlelight.

Suddenly, all the puzzle pieces in his mind slot. “You’re Eponine,” Montparnasse says. “The one who’s been leaving me notes.”

“Bingo,” Eponine grins, and his heart is pounding in his chest because oh, hell, the bottom of his stomach has dropped out and he thinks he might be a little in love. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“I’d offer to shake your hand, but I’m a little tied up at the moment,” Montparnasse says dryly. “So, what exactly do you want?”

“Primarily, for you people to leave me alone.”

“Hold on,” he says. “I’ve got two questions first. One, where are my knives, and two, where’d you even get your information on us?”

Eponine pulls out one of his knives and flips it. Damn it. “These? They’re very nice. I think I’ll keep this one, if you don’t mind. And your secretary is my sister. You might want to up your background checks on employees.”

“Hmm,” Montparnasse says. “Might need to do something about her, yes?”

Without warning, Eponine shoots forward and tilts his chair so he’s balanced on the back legs, and his knife is pressed up against his throat. Why does he always end up in these situations? Has he somehow offended some higher power in a previous life? Montparnasse freezes, trying to put his hands up before remembering, yeah, tied to a chair.

“Don’t touch my sister,” she hisses, looking positively livid.

Is it weird that this is kind of turning him on? “Hey now,” Montparnasse says, raising his eyebrows. “No need to get violent. I actually had a better idea. We’ll forget this ever happened, we won’t touch your sister, and you join up with Patron Minette.”

Eponine blinks slowly and withdraws the knife. “Now, why would I want to do that?”

He relaxes a little, now that his life isn’t actively being threatened. “Well, I mean, you’re kind of a small time thief, aren’t you? That’s why you were never on my radar until the,” he shrugs, “You know. Anyway, you’re small time and I bet you’ve had a hard time. Probably been sleeping rough. If you join us, we pay well, and there’s lodging in it. And we all have each other’s backs, if you ever need the help.” But inside, he’s thinking, Like hell am I letting you walk away right now.

Eponine narrows her eyes her eyes but tilts to her head to one side, and Montparnasse is crowing on the inside because she’s actually considering it, he really is. She sighs and cuts the zip ties. Montparnasse stands and stretches, groaning aloud.

She sighs. “All right, fine. I don’t see that I’ve got much of a choice, in any case.”

His answering grin could light the room.


End file.
